


Six

by megslittlehellhound



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megslittlehellhound/pseuds/megslittlehellhound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes care of Sam, even when he's at his worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaywinnetleigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaywinnetleigh/gifts).



Sammy was crying, again. Dean was worried, he frantically checked Sam’s forehead for a temperature, checked his diaper, burped him, put socks on him, and then took those socks off. Dean sighed, the breath he let out pushing the tips of his hair up, he needed a haircut; the only thing left was food; so he tried to feed him, Sam would push the spoon away, saying, “No.”

“Then what, Sammy? I’m tired, and cold. An’ Dad’s not gon’ be back for a while.”

“Tiwed.”

_Oh, so that’s what it is, he’s tired_. “Okay, Sammy, go get in bed. You go take a nap.”

Sam pushed his little, chubby body out of a chair much too big for a child his size, and tried to run, unsuccessfully, and falling on his face, to his and Dean’s bedroom. He got up again, unscathed by his fall onto the disgusting, orange, shag carpet, and toddled a little slower in the same direction as before. Dean sighed again, and got up to walk after him. 

He felt so _old_ , so _tired_ , and he was six, God damn it! He told himself, adding the curse word to try to soothe his pain. He’d been hurting so badly, lately. John would cuss him out and hit him, if he didn’t feed Sammy, but sometimes he forgot, and some of the motels put microwaves up too high for the six year old’s height. He was scared, sometimes, that he wasn’t doing the right thing. If he did something wrong, John would hurt him, then get black out drunk and make Dean clean up the mess, and take care of the toddler in the next room.

He would do the things anyway. He had to do what he could for Sammy. That was his job. That’s what John always told him. He never questioned that, even when he was wishing for the home he could never have again, even when he wanted to run away, even when Sammy was sick and would get Dean sick, and Dean still had to take care of him. 

He stepped into their bedroom with teary eyes. He blinked them away and swallowed. 

“All right, Sammy, do you need anything?”

“Stowy. Pwease?”

“Uh…..” He couldn’t remember any. Mary would tell him some, but they were hard to remember, and she used big words. “How about a song instead, I can’t remember no stories.”

“Otay.” Sammy said hopefully.

He thought for a moment, making a list of how many times he’d have to change a word. “Hush, little baby, don’t you cry, brother’s gonna sing you a lullaby…..”

Sam was out cold by the end of the first line. Curled in the blankets, and fast asleep, Dean was finally okay. His fear was temporarily gone. 

“Boy!” John screamed, after opening the door. Luckily, Sam was a heavy sleeper. “Where’s Sammy?”

Dean swallowed, blinking, “Uh, he’s asleep. He’s taking a nap.” He said hurriedly, he wanted this conversation to be over.

“Okay.” John walked away from his eldest son, and went to his room, pulling a bottle of whiskey out of his bag. “What, boy?” He said, when he saw Dean was watching him.

“Nothing.”

John slammed the door, and Dean sat on the couch, hoping that his father couldn’t hear his sobs.


End file.
